


Skinny Love

by TheThirdTemptationOfParis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I'm making my gf read this and I'm sorry, Love, M/M, Scars, Sorry Love, The Reichenbach Fall, the return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 12:28:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11555211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis
Summary: Sherlock fell. He fell five stories. And he forced John to watch it. He was heartless. A machine, just like everyone had said. But there was some niggling thought in the back of John’s mind that said that there wasn’t something quite right with the picture set before him. In the few months between the appearances of Irene Adler, John thought they were getting closer and closer to finally stepping over that line, but instead, Sherlock stepped over a ledge.Skinny love lasted longer than a year.





	Skinny Love

_Come on, skinny love, just last the year. Pour a little salt, we were never here._

Sherlock fell. He fell five stories. And he forced John to watch it. He was heartless. A machine, just like everyone had said. But there was some niggling thought in the back of John’s mind that said that there wasn’t something quite right with the picture set before him. In the few months between the appearances of Irene Adler, John thought they were getting closer and closer to finally stepping over that line, but instead, Sherlock stepped over a ledge.

John clutched the limp wrist on the ground, his fingers gripping desperately to find a pulse, but it was all in vain. Sherlock was dead. His lifeless, half-open eyes stared at him from the pavement. He shrank to his knees, still gripping the hand, and whisper, “You selfish bastard,” before being pulled back and away, Sherlock being lifted from the pavement and onto a gurney. 

_Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer._

_You selfish bastard._

_You selfish bastard._

_You selfish...machine._

Sherlock stared at red-brown water washing down the drain of the medical sink, tears stinging the backs of his eyes. _Bastard. Machine. Selfish._ His hair was wet and sticking to his forehead uncomfortably, but that was nothing compared the shrinking of his heart in his chest. Those three words were nothing compared to _brilliant. Fantastic. Amazing._ All the compliments that ever fell from John’s lips were rendered moot by the disgust and bitterness of his recent words. 

Sherlock looked up at his reflection. Red-rimmed eyes, dark circles, gaunt features. 

_You selfish bastard._

_You machine._

Whatever he’s done, he can’t reverse it now. Or he can, by doing what he’s set out to do. Make John safe by eradicating the vicious web that’s overcome what may be the entire world. But will that be enough? Will it ever be enough?

 _I tell my love to wreck it all. Cut out all the ropes and let me fall._

John was spiraling. Fast. He was close to blackout drunk every night. He stopped showing up to work. He saw Sherlock everywhere he looked. Had full blown conversations, one sided though they may have been, with him in the flat. He yelled. He cursed. He threw things. Talking a dead man that couldn't hear him. Sherlock never responded. 

He told him he loved him. Sherlock just stared. John drank more. This went on for months. 

_And I told you to be patient. And I told you to be kind. And I told you to be balanced. And I told you to be fine._

_It's just a magic trick._

_Please, John, will you do this for me._

_You selfish bastard._

_You machine._

Sherlock's wrists ached. His back was bloody. He wanted to go home. A year and a half away from John was far too much. He just wanted to cross that line. He wanted John. All of him. 

_You have to be more careful._

A memory of John's chastising came to him, unbidden, as if he didn't already know. As if he hasn't already lost about a month of sleep. They were depriving him and he felt like he was falling apart from the inside. 

_I can't bear to lose you. You could stand to be a bit more careful._

Sherlock felt the ghost of a hand on the side of his face. Physical, visual, and auditory hallucinations. He needed to get home. 

_Listen to me, Sherlock. Come home to me. Do you understand? Come. Home._

“You don’t mean that, John,” Sherlock spat the blood filling his mouth onto the concrete floor, “You called me selfish. I’ve been doing this all for you.”

_Then explain that to me when you get home. Just come home._

“It's not that easy, Jo—” he was cut off by the opening of the door. One of the last men in Moriarty’s Serbian sector stood back lit by the bright lights. He held a crowbar in his hand. Sherlock closed his eyes and bowed his head, hair falling over his face. It was going to be a long night. 

_In the morning I'll be with you, but it'll be a different kind._

“John.”

John dropped his glass, whipping around, looking for the source of the voice. That deep baritone that has haunted his dreams but evaded his waking life for two long years. Behind him, I'm the living room of their flat, stood Sherlock. Thin, long-haired, beaten, broken Sherlock, “You bastard.”

Sherlock was hunched at the shoulders and shaking, looking like he was going to collapse to the ground. His hand were over his ears and John stepped up to him cautiously, encircling his wrists lightly, “I’m sorry John. Please don’t. I’m so sorry.”

_Come on, skinny love, what happened here?_

Sherlock was having a panic attack. John gently pulled his hands away from his ears and spoke softly, “I’m going to put your hand on my chest, okay Sherlock? And I’m gonna have you take deep breaths with me.”

John did as he said and took deep, measured breaths, making sure Sherlock was breathing with him, and as the tension and shaking left his body, John began to speak, “I’m not angry. Well, I am, but not as much as I really should be. I’m so fucking relieved you’re alive, but you had me believe you were dead for two years. Just… come here.” He pulled Sherlock into his arms, running his hands up his back, only to feel Sherlock flinch even more, “What did they do to you, sweetheart?” John didn’t stop the endearment from slipping past his lips. He’d waited too long to have this, he was damn well going to get it.

“They—” Sherlock started, but John shook his head.

“Don’t tell, show. I’m not going to force you to go through that all again.”

Sherlock nodded and turned around, undoing the buttons on his shirt, letting it fall off his shoulders. The lines marring his back made John grit his teeth, turn, and get his kit from the kitchen, “Come here, Sherlock. Sit in front of me. Let me take care of that.”

Sherlock did as he was told, bending nearly half over in front of John, before shifting slightly, “They, um. Lower.”

John’s left hand clenched as he prepared to ask the next question, “Did they…?”

Sherlock shook his head, “No, just… brutality.”

“I’ll take care of you, love. Now stay still. This is going to sting.”

It took close to two hours to get Sherlock cleaned and sutured and John couldn’t help but flinch every time Sherlock did, wishing to take the pain from him. Sherlock looked spent by the time he had finished, “Paracetamol and then bed for you. You don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to. At least not tonight.” He helped Sherlock off the floor and half carried him to his bedroom, laying him down as he turned to get him a glass of water and a pill. 

Sherlock grasped John’s hand before he could leave the room, “Don’t leave. Please?” 

John bent down and smoothed back his over-long hair, placing a kiss on his forehead, “I need to get you water, love. I’ll be right back, I promise.” He was quick about it, but when he came back, Sherlock was curled into a ball and was shaking again, “Sh, hey. I’m right here. Can you sit up for me?”

Sherlock does and gratefully takes the pill and the water, pulling John into the bed with him, “Stay. Please stay.” He wrapped John in his arms, gripping as best he could with the strength he had.

“Not going anywhere, sweetheart. We gotta do something about this hair tomorrow. I need to be able to see that beautiful face of yours.”

“Stop doing that if you don’t mean it John. Stop using endearments if you don’t mean it.”

“I do mean it.” And John cups Sherlock’s jaw and kisses him lightly.

_Who will love you? Who will fight?_


End file.
